


Worry

by cuddlesome



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward Crush, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Injury Recovery, Phasma feels a feel and doesn't know what to do with it, Rare Pairings, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7392484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesome/pseuds/cuddlesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Captain Phasma must come to grips with her concern for Kylo Ren.</p><p>Written for a tumblr request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worry

**Author's Note:**

> RAREPAIR LET'S GOOOOO!
> 
> This was written for an anonymous request on tumblr for Phasma/Kylo fluff. I struggled really hard with the fluff part but I like to think it kicks in at the end. Enjoy!

For the most part, Captain Phasma can deal with the fact that Kylo Ren never follows protocol. He operates outside of the clean cut organization of the First Order. His is the sort of personality that would be weeded out of the stormtrooper program early on to ensure that there would be no delusions of going against the system. Given his freedom from all authority save the express intent of the Supreme Leader, Ren’s capacity for impulsiveness and solo work grew to a point that rankles Phasma immensely. Why should the First Order give so much power to someone who exudes so much disorder? She keeps her irritation in check, however, less out of fear that he will sense it in the Force, as some of her more superstitious ’troopers say, and more to maintain her brand of cool professionalism.

The concern that she is not as good at masking is her alarm at Ren’s apparent inability to take proper care of himself after battle.

Phasma does not punish her troops’ failures with lasting injuries, as Hux recommends. Shame is a much more surefire way to make sure that they do not repeat their mistakes. Corporal punishment is inefficient at best and crippling at worst. In the same vein, she sends her injured troops to medical the moment they return to base. While Kylo Ren is not a stormtrooper, he is her comrade. His habit of returning from missions with a fresh blood trail leading to his chambers and undocumented damage to his body irritates Phasma.

Such is the case when they return from the assault on Ottegan.

To many, it would look as though he had made it out of the battle without a scratch in the way that seemingly-invincible Force-users often seem to. Phasma, however, detects the limp that goes mostly disguised by his long robes.

After the debriefing, she waits until the troops have filed out to confront him and save the both of them embarrassment.

Phasma inclines her helm toward his leg, “Sir, I would recommend going to the medbay.”

“I would recommend you spend your time worrying about your troops instead of me.”

Phasma is more than used to her commander’s petulance but to imply that she is worried makes her already upright and tight posture even tauter. Her sweat-slicked, aching shoulders protest against the movement in her close-fitting armor after a long day in combat, but she does not relax. ‘Worry’. Hardly. It is professional concern and he is flattering himself by thinking she would feel anything more for him.

“We are scheduled to go on the mission to Jakku soon,” Phasma points out, “and it would be better for the both of us if you were in top condition, sir.”

Being surrounded by molded masks has trained Phasma to read body language to the optimum degree. Kylo Ren is an open book: every muscle tight under his close-fitting sleeves, hands clenching and unclenching into fists, shifting his weight from foot to foot, all signifying his perpetual tension and irritability.

Ren says, “The pain aids me in my pursuit of the darkness. It’s not something you would understand, captain.”

Ah. The age-old excuse.

“Very well,” Phasma concedes, as mystical ancient religions are not her area of expertise.

“You are dismissed, Captain Phasma.”

“Yes, sir.”

As she watches Kylo Ren leave, disguising his limp best he can with his stomping, long strides, she decides the battle is not worth fighting. She can let him have this. But if he should ever get extremely hurt on her watch again, medical attention will be a necessity.  
  


Phasma finds her opportunity to fulfill her silent vow on the day in which Starkiller Base is destroyed. After escaping from the compactor with only minimal damage to her armor—the worst of it is the stink and that much will wash off—and rallying as many stormtroopers as she can, she links up with General Hux.

His face is set into even more of a grimace than usual, no doubt due to the smell clinging to her. Phasma does not dignify his reaction by addressing it.

When they find Kylo Ren, he is a pitiful sight. Gone is the shadowy cowl, the distinctive mask. In their place is the bisected face of a painfully young-looking man.

“Someone get this fool onboard,” Hux spits, indicating Ren with a jerk of his chin.

The stormtroopers around Phasma hesitate, but even if they had begun to obey on cue she would have beaten them to it. She shoves her weapon into the hands of the closest ’trooper and throws Ren over her shoulder, minding the nasty wound on his side and his mangled shoulder.

At this point, the planet has all but collapsed around them, leaving them very little time to escape back to the transport before the entire planet blows. They make it, though Phasma’s sewage-covered cape is singed. She almost takes it off once she gets on the transport, reaching for the clasp holding it in place, but Ren fists the material draped over her arm. She pauses, thinking he has woken up, but he makes no movement beyond that. Filthy as it is, Phasma leaves the cape with Ren when she drops him off with the few medical workers they had managed to save. Proper attention will have to wait until they get onboard the Finalizer.

Captain Phasma stands to one side in the troop carrier that had served as their escape ship. She does not look at the imploding Starkiller Base or her troops, and certainly not at Kylo Ren. She stares into the vacuous reaches of space and deliberates on the Order’s next move.

It’s for the better that Ren is unconscious. Phasma is decently sure that he has to maintain consciousness in order to read minds. If he were awake and able to read hers, he would register that she is in fact very, very worried beneath her firm, metallic plates of control.

 

Phasma sits in the medbay at Kylo Ren’s bedside during one of the few and far between times she has time off. She had not gotten a very good look at him after Starkiller, an urge that she indulges now.

What she finds most of note is that Kylo Ren has elaborately messy, lengthy hair that rails against the parameters for hairstyles in the First Order. Phasma decides that it suits him. The second most noteworthy feature is, of course, the lightsaber wound. The wild slash across his face shows no evidence of the extensive treatment done to every other injury, leaving it red, oozing, and angry.

As Phasma tries to mentally piece together what his face must have looked like before the grievous strike, Ren wakes up. He sees her and jerks, startled, then winces and hisses since he had no doubt aggravated his injuries.

“Captain,” he greets through his teeth.

Phasma dips her helm in deference, masking her surprise at how different his unmodulated voice sounds. “Sir.”

After a moment of deliberation, she takes off her helmet and sets it on her lap. It would not do to hold the security of a mask over his head and mock him. Not that her face is much more expressive than the chrome helmet. It does not occur to her until the helmet is off that he has never seen her face bared before, either.

Ren stares at her for a long time. Any other stormtrooper might have squirmed under his probing gaze, but not Phasma, not captain of the most elite stormtroopers—the “queen”, as some of her ’troopers liked to call her when they thought she wasn’t listening. The nickname pleased her more than she would ever care to admit.

“You’re blonde,” Ren says.

Phasma scoffs. “And you have a moptop.”

“I’m afraid I cannot pull off a buzz cut, captain,” Ren says, running his fingers through his hair and then, quite brusquely, demanding, “Why are you here?”

Phasma, usually quick and crisp with her answers, finds herself hesitating. She shies away from the word that keeps coming to mind, but she cannot think of any synonymous substitute.

“I was… worried,” she finally grinds out.

Kylo Ren smiles at her then. It’s a little thing, a slight quirk of his plump lips to one side. Abruptly, Phasma feels heat diffuse through her body and a distinctive twist in her stomach. Like Ren’s smile, it only lasts an instant, but Phasma is shaken. How strange. Perhaps she should have the medical personnel check her out as she leaves.

“Please restrain yourself from doing anything foolish while you recover, sir,” Phasma says, then adds lightly, “Your quest for power can wait until your body is well again.”

“I’ll consider it,” Ren huffs.

Phasma knows that that is the most she is going to get from Ren and she decides that it is satisfactory for now. He will get restless while bedridden, most assuredly, but perhaps she can entertain him with conversation on her time off. What to talk about? Battle plans, hand-to-hand combat, haircuts—Phasma finds she does not much care, so long as she can speak with him and his wounds are taken care of for once. Her worry, loathe as she is to admit that she had it in the first place, will be alleviated.

She stands, puts on her helmet, and salutes. “Good day, Lord Ren. I—I hope that—”

That’s enough. Phasma cannot bring herself to say anything more. The admittance to worry is enough of a display of human emotion for the next year or so.

“Good day, Lord Ren,” she repeats, turns on her heel, and marches off.

“Good day, Captain Phasma,” Kylo Ren says to her retreating form.

That strange heat and twist in her stomach surfaces again. Phasma, discomfited but thankful for the reminder, goes to have herself checked out, hoping she had not caught some horrible disease while caught in the trash compactor.


End file.
